The view from the fourth-floor balcony may not always be beautiful. Not even when the two ancient mango trees are heavy with the ripening fruit and old and new leaves in all shades of green; not even if the tall eucalyptus sway in the breeze that heralds the monsoon showers in May; not even if the well-manicured podium gardens and the bluest swimming pool of the new housing complex that overlooks my thirty-year-old balcony, promise that the screams of children as they dive deep into the waters or swirl on the swings to the accompaniment of the chatter of their well-dressed ayahs from the nearby slums, will soon be a reality once this lockdown is lifted. The trees house parrots, squirrels, crows and, I should think, some sparrows too. But it is the crows who are the masters here. The parrots stay out of the way. The last time I saw them flying riotously in the skies was on the day when India clanged vessels in the balconies to drive out the corona demon. What amazes me is the restraint of the birds: the mangoes have been ripening on the trees for more than a month now; but they remain untouched.
Now, there are these two special crows, who cautiously step on to the ledge below my balcony, calling, because they are no longer able to fly distances and have to make do with the leftovers that the residents throw on the ground, stealthily, under the cover of the dark. They know me, I think. Because every time I step on to the balcony, one of them is sure to be there. With open beak. Silent. Waiting. In fact, it waits for me to go to the balcony for my evening cup of tea or to spread the washing on the clotheslines. And in no time, it descends to the ledge from its nest in the mango tree.
This morning, the brooding silence is shattered, not by the raucous cries of my friends the crows, but by the high-pitched voice of the thin old lady who lives on the ground floor. She could be anything from fifty to seventy. She is so thin that I have often wondered how she is able to carry what remains of her body in the loose yellowish maxi she always wears. Bare to the bones, and on the few occasions on which I have run into her at the door near the lift or the courtyard where she takes a walk every night after 10.30 or so, I have been struck by the emptiness in her eyes and her shrivelled skin and bones. Now I hear her reed-like voice saying something, but the words are not clear. Balancing my coffee mug on the parapet, I look down. She is near the newly planted fig shrubs which she waters every day, gesticulating wildly. No one else seems to hear her. If there are people on their own balconies, I have no way of knowing. Their silence is deafening, deadening. She looks at me momentarily, but I don’t think she registers my presence. Her tirade continues. It appears that people on the upper floors have been throwing down stuff again and she is rebuking them with angry gestures and words that make no sense.
I have often wondered why she has to sweep the grounds and the courtyard every day. I mean the sweeper couple and their two sturdy boys do a good job and keep our grounds clean. Even when they do not come for a few days, the stuff the neighbours drop after dark are taken care of by the birds, the rodents, the squirrels. But every single day, there she is, at nine in the morning and four in the evening, sweeping, cleaning, watering the plants, heaping dried leaves in a corner. It is only today that she is creating such a furore. I want to say something to her, perhaps to ask her to come up for a cup of tea with me; but she does not look up, and my voice and inviting look are lost in the rustling of the leaves and the distance.
*
I have spoken to her only twice before. And what a downpour it was both times! That was last year – a few weeks before I quit the idea of moving out because of my RA. The doctor had warned me that the disease could incapacitate me some day, but I still cannot believe that it could have happened so fast. I mean, I eat well, sleep well, can even potter around the house and run through some chores … but the stiffness is getting into the bone marrow and Mitali and Inder have absolutely vetoed that I go out any time in their absence. They take care of my morning walk though. Those twenty minutes are when we exchange the gossip of the previous day. I will have to wait till tomorrow before I can tell them about her fury which I witnessed today.
She came to our society about two years back. I remember how shocked we were. The old man’s wife had died a couple of months earlier and one fine day, we see this exact image of the dead woman in her sister who has come to live with him. The same gait, the same ludicrous smile, the same broken teeth, the same desperate look, the same loose skin hanging on her bones, the same loose yellowish maxi. Mitali told me that she had moved in with him and that earlier, she had been living with a distant relative in the poorest corridors of Govandi. The old man was her benefactor and he had done her a great favour by rescuing her. And yes, she kept his house sparkling clean. But every night her plaintive pleading and his uncontrolled shouting could be heard by all those who used the lift. During the day, when he went out twice to get his daily quota of rum and the chicken, which she then cooked for him, he used to lock the door. This was the time she used to clean the house and wash the clothes. After a few months, perhaps he got more confident that she would stay, he stopped locking her in and it was then that she started raking the grounds every morning for an hour or two when he was out.
*
Auntie, I come from Govandi. This man is my brother. Like my brother. When sister died, he came to me one day. Told me that he would give me food and clothes. All I had to do was the housework only. Auntie, I was ready to do that. There in Govandi, they would do all kinds of things with me. They would even get people to do things with me. And they would beat me every day. So I said, why not? At least he is my sister’s husband. He will take care of me, like he took care of her. I always felt that she was so lucky. And stupid also. I used to think why has she lost all her flesh when he is keeping her so happy and so well-fed. Now, I know, Auntie. And all those injuries on my body. Still the same, Auntie. But at least I eat here. There in Govandi I was hungry all the time.
Both times it was the same story that she told me. Then on the second occasion, he stumbled upon us. Even in his drunken stupor he knew that she had been telling me things. She did not meet me again.
*
I was uneasy about her the whole day because I knew that the morning’s tantrums pointed to something deeper and more dangerous. When Mitali came home in the evening, I told her. ‘Ma, what can we do? This happens in almost every house in this society. You know the dentist on the sixth floor. Just look at what he did to his wife. She did not hang herself last year for nothing, Ma. Stop worrying about her. There is nothing we can do.’
The evening was quiet and dull. The birds were silent. My two crows had perhaps gone to sleep. Not a whiff of breeze could be felt. The sultriness of the air seeped into me in my sleep. I felt I would choke.
*
The next few days went by in a daze. All I remember is that in the ICU, I believed that I was dying and everywhere I looked, I could see blue waves of air and water. Faces kept floating in and out of my consciousness. Inder was there most of the time. Face tense. Nervous smile. Quivering hands, as they tucked me to sleep every night. Mitali. The nurses. Some ward boys. Doctors. Often, they melted into one another as I lay in a dream, barely conscious of the noisy goings on around me. One night I created a ruckus, and Mitali tells me they had quite a task keeping me pinned to the bed. I was crying for Shubha. I knew she was not around, was actually in Chennai for her Masters, but I worried that I had to see her. Couldn’t die otherwise. Then, the mind travelled all over in a fluid freefall. I was surrounded by hostile boyish faces with wilful cruelty in their eyes. A woman’s voice threatened if you don’t do your best and cooperate to draw the oxygen from the ventilator I will put you on life support and you can’t imagine how bad that would be. Another, gentler voice continued to coax me to keep breathing and drawing the oxygen from the huge tubes. I think I was screaming and trying to hit out blindly, but I could not lift my hands. I floated into a long vast passage of unending blue light. Suddenly it was as if I had lost all that was weighing me down as I kept on rising upwards as a wave of blue engulfed me from all sides. Then there was music soft and melancholy. Soothing too, but with a sadness that filled the space around me as I vaguely thought of my crows and the gulmohar tree that had not yet flowered this summer. A much-loved tune uplifted me – a tune I could vaguely recognise as I vainly struggled to get some words to go with it. I was melting into the music and a cool breeze that gently caressed my body. Then, without warning the faces came back. The cruel eyed boys. The threatening voice…
The doctor was holding my hand. It was morning. With a smile he was asking, So what happened last night?
I reflected and after a brief moment, I believe I was hysterical, doc.
Do you know why?
I shook my head.
Oxygen - less oxygen reaching your brain and playing havoc with your senses. So, take care that you befriend this machine and don’t resist it again.
I smiled.
And yes … you will be fine now, I’m sure.
Ten days later I was back home. It came as a surprise to me that in those ten days not once had I thought of or ‘seen’ that shrunken woman.
*
The neighbours were happy that I was back. I could see them peering through the balcony grilles and their smiles cheered me up. I knew they would not come in to see me because of the lockdown. But I received WhatsApp messages congratulating me from nearly everyone in my building and the neighbourhood. They messaged me throughout the day that they had prayed for me. My recovery from my respiratory illness, was nothing short of a miracle.
I was back at my balcony the day after my discharge. The old crows were nowhere to be seen. The nest on the mango tree was there and I was sure that the new chicks had hatched. But my dim eyes could hardly see through the mist and involuntary tears that now enveloped them. Nor was she to be seen. I waited for two days. There were a couple of pigeons on the ledge now, and in the distance the parrots were flying over the swimming pool. The quarrelsome sound of the squirrels enchanted me, and as I saw them running up and down the long green trees, I loved the lightness with which they scurried about. I asked Inder about her. He shook his head. Never noticed her, even before this he said. Mitali, however assured me that she had heard her voice from the lobby. Last week, Mitali said, she heard her shout at the top of her voice at the old man. It was a new kind of voice, she said. Then with a sadness not characteristic of her she said the beatings have not stopped though.
Next day she was back in the grounds with her broom and watering can. To my great relief. I called out to her, knowing full well that my much-weakened voice would not reach her. The distance between the grounds and the fourth floor! She did not look up.
The mangoes were riper, but still hung heavy on the branches. They would drop down any day now. And the smell of the monsoon could be felt in the air. A deep sadness settled on me as I slowly came to terms with the new knowledge of having lived through it all now.
Fifteen days. It was back to the routine now more or less. Mitali would cook in the early hours, fill three tiffin boxes for lunch and the evening snacks – for the three of us and get down to her work in the adjoining flat at 9 in the morning. Inder would be at his work by 10 – and then, the whole day to myself. To read, write, think, catch some movies, sleep, sit in the balcony. Soundless days, broken only by the cooing of the pigeons and the tiny shrill squeaks of the squirrels.
*
One day, the bell rang. I had just fallen asleep after my afternoon meal and I thought it was a dream. In the same drowsy state, I walked slowly towards the door and looked out from the peephole. It was she. Wearing her loose familiar yellowing maxi, a scarf over her head and mouth and a mask covering her nose. I opened the door. I smiled. Her eyes smiled back at me.
I let in her. She had been careful to keep her brown slippers outside. She held something in her hand and kept it carefully on the table and noticing the sanitiser on the dining table, used it. Then she sat on the chair at the other end of the room. I waited, puzzled.
I know you have been sick…
Long pause.
But you look nice now.
Longer pause.
I missed you. Every day I used to look up at the balcony and wait for you to come back.
How are you? I asked limply. I didn’t know what else to say.
She gave me a long look before she spoke again.
You know I beat him up the other day … it was too much…. I took the pestle and aimed for his shoulder … I could have broken his head but I thought what would that do … his shoulder his hand is now…
Yes. I replied. And then…
Then what…. For more than a week he could not move his hands or his arms. The fury in his eyes was dreadful. But there was fear also…
He gives me the leg even now…. It will be more than a month before he is able to lift his hand again. Refuses to see a doctor. Afraid that he might test positive. I have been repairing the wound with turmeric and …
Silence.
Look what I have got for you.
She uncovered the little box she had bought. Two mangoes. Neither ripe nor unripe, - green, yellowing, with a hint of the red.
Let them get ripe, cut them after two three days – one at a time … they will be tasty … they are just like the ones which my Govandi trees would give…
So these are the mangoes from our trees!
I looked at her quizzically. I could see her eyes glowing.
Yes … they fell at the right time otherwise they would have broken … I kept them in hay so that they would ripen but they are taking longer … even if you make chutney it will be tasty….
What do I say?
Where is he now? I asked her.
At home. Growling and grumbling. He knows I have come to meet you. He cursed us both. Said that we are sure to infect each other.
We both laughed. I realised, with mild surprise that she was more toothless than I had thought. But it was good to hear that laugh.
As she let herself out at the door and slipped on her mask again, she looked back.
I will come again.
You know, one of the two crows died…
Next day the sound of her sweeping the grounds called out to me. I peered out of the balcony and there she was, head bowed, intent upon the traces of garbage that were flying here and there around her.
I looked up and gazed into the distance. Suddenly a sharp delight coursed through me. The dry gulmohar at the end of the road was in its full glory now. The eucalyptus and mango trees were swaying heavily in the wind. It must surely rain today.
*
Charanjeet Kaur, retired academician, has two published poetry collections, Mirror Image and Other Poems and The Songs from the Hills. She writes short stories which have been published in journals like Manushi and New Quest in India. Her poetry has appeared in Indian literary journals like Chandrabhaga, Kavya Bharati, and others. Post-retirement, she works with Sound & Picture ARchives for Research On Women (SPARROW) in an honorary capacity, and writes features and book reviews regularly for their Newsletter, as their Consultant Editor. She has been the Chief Editor and General Editor of the literary ejournal Muse India.